


Servitas Et Libertas

by The_Arkadian



Series: Reflections [2]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/pseuds/The_Arkadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prequel of sorts to "Dark Mirror", explaining just how Arden Hawke, Fenris and Anders came to be in a threesome to begin with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't lose your head

Fenris glared past Hawke at Anders with undisguised hostility.

“What is _that_ doing here?” he spat.

Arden Hawke sighed. “Fenris, Aveline brought me word the templars were about to do a sweep through Darktown. I just barely got Anders into the cellars beneath my estate before they broke down the clinic door. I didn't want to leave him alone just now.” He turned on his most winning smile as his eyebrows quirked upwards, the amber eyes gazing at Fenris in best puppy-dog fashion. “Please,” he added quietly. “Just for tonight let him join us?”

Fenris glared at the tall blond apostate who stood silently, watching Fenris with a kind of hopeless despairing air over Arden's shoulder. He was clutching something to his chest that Fenris couldn't quite make out, hunched over slightly as though trying to make himself seem smaller.

The elf stepped back finally, pushing the door wider. “Very well,” he agreed reluctantly. He turned away, not waiting for them to follow as he made his way back up the stairs to the one room he had claimed for his own in the old dilapidated mansion.

Arden gave Anders an encouraging smile over his shoulder before following Fenris, leaving Anders to bring up the rear. Their breath steamed in the cold air; the mansion was barely warmer than the chill night outside.

Fenris' chosen room however was warm and almost cheerful by comparison, the furniture old and shabby but otherwise in reasonable condition. A blazing fire crackled in the large stone fireplace, warming the room, and an open bottle of wine sat beside a pair of glasses on a low table between two chairs near the fire.

“I have been practising since last you came,” said Fenris as he moved towards one of the chairs, picking up a small book that lay open upon the seat and carefully smoothing the pages before handing it to Arden.

The blond mage shed his heavy outer cloak and pulled the top laces of his teal robe open before taking the book as he made his way to the other seat, glancing over the cover before flicking through the pages. “This one is more advanced than the book of fairytales I left you last time; how are you finding it?”

Fenris poured them both a glass of wine, handing one to Arden before hesitating and glancing at Anders. Arden glanced back at the apostate who stood by the door, an uncertain look upon his face as he watched them. The elf's lip curled in a half-sneer, then he gestured to a tattered overstuffed chair on the other side of the fire. At Arden's encouraging nod, Anders made his way to the chair and settled himself in it gingerly, hunching over as he regarded Fenris warily.

The white-haired elf regarded him inscrutably for a moment, then stalked towards the apostate and abruptly thrust the rest of the bottle of wine at Anders. The apostate clutched at the bottle, startled, a small, thread-worn pillow embroidered with flowers and plants falling to his knees as his hands grasped the smooth green bottle. The elven warrior glanced down at it in mild curiosity, then dismissed it mentally as he fixed Anders with a piercing stare.

“I would hear only silence from you, mage. Understood?” was all he said. After a moment, Anders nodded understanding. Satisfied, the elf turned his back on Anders, returning to his own seat and taking up his glass of wine.

After a little small-talk, Arden handed the small book back to Fenris, who found his page again and then began to quietly read aloud.

Anders watched, silent as he had been bidden. The scent of the rich wine rose from the bottle, enticing and heady, and after a little while he took a cautious sip. A little drink couldn't hurt. He quenched the feeling of inner disapproval as he took a second sip; it was very good wine.

Fenris and Arden finished their glasses, and Fenris produced a second bottle from beside his chair, refilling their glasses before carrying on, Arden nodding approvingly as the elf paused and sounded out the syllables of a particularly tricky word before carrying on in greater confidence.

When that second bottle of wine was finished, Fenris rose and left the room briefly, returning with four more bottles. He thrust one at Anders without looking before returning to his seat; he set two of the bottles on the floor beside his chair and cracked open the third, refilling the glasses. Setting aside the book, he and Arden began to converse quietly, relaxing as the wine loosened their tongues.

Anders was surprised to find that his half bottle of wine had slipped down all too easily and was now empty. He glanced at the unopened bottle in his hand, then glanced up at Fenris.

The elf, aware of Anders' eyes upon him, raised his own glass in silent acknowledgement, his face relaxed, a slight flush upon his cheeks from the wine, and Anders realised Fenris was slightly intoxicated, in rare good mood for now. Taking encouragement, Anders opened the new bottle and drank directly from it. It was very good wine indeed. And very strong, he realised, sipping cautiously.

He could feel himself beginning to relax and wind as he leaned back in the chair, and for a little while he was lost in his own thoughts as he gazed into the fire, the slender fingers of one hand absently tracing the soft silken embroidery of his mother's pillow. When Arden had come to retrieve him from the clinic just moments ahead of the templars, he'd had no time to gather any other possessions save his staff and the pillow, all that remained to remind him of her. He had clutched it to him as a talisman and the reassuring feel of it beneath his hand as he sipped and stared into the fire served to ground him a little even as the strong wine began to take effect. The low rumble of Fenris' baritone voice was almost soothing.

“Yes, why not?” Arden's voice broke in upon Anders' chain of thought, and he glanced back over to the two men who were both staring at him expectantly.

“What?” he asked, suddenly wary as he straightened.

“Cards, Anders,” said Arden patiently as he held up a deck. “A few hands of Wicked Grace?”

“I have no coin on me,” the apostate pointed out.

Arden shrugged. “We could play for forfeits,” he suggested.

“Strip Wicked Grace?” Fenris' smile was sly but not overtly malicious as he cast a glance in Anders' direction.

“Agreed,” nodded Arden enthusiastically. “The loser of each hand has to lose an item of clothing!”

Anders groaned. He could see how this was going to play out. Laying the pillow down carefully, he rose to his feet, still clutching the bottle of wine as he joined the others.

 

**

 

The evening wore on into night. Two more bottles of wine were cracked open. The talk flowed easier, Fenris becoming more convivial and almost friendly towards Anders even as the three men became progressively more and more drunk. Clothing was discarded by each of the men as their fortunes ebbed and waned; the elf never lost more than his tunic, sitting casually in breeches, boots and shirt, and Arden had to cast aside the teal robe. Anders, though perhaps the heaviest dressed of them all, was down to just his breeches and thin linen shirt, grey from too much washing and much darned, the fabric worn thin through repeated washing and wearing, by the time they were on to the fourth bottle of wine.

Anders stared down at his hand and groaned, throwing the cards down in disgust before dropping his head to his forearms folded upon the table.

“The mage has lost again,” remarked Fenris, though his tone was without rancour.

“Go on, Anders,” said Arden. “You know the rule.”

Anders reached for the hem of his shirt, then paused, glancing up at Arden. “Hawke,” he said quietly, a troubled look in his eyes. “Please, don't make me do this.”

Arden frowned, his eyes slightly glazed from drink. “You lost the round, Anders. Go on, lose the shirt.”

Anders glanced to Fenris but saw he'd get no sympathy there. He looked back to Arden, a look of desperation in his eyes. “Hawke – Arden, please-”

“Stop stalling, Anders,” slurred Arden with a hint of impatience creeping into his voice. “What are you afraid of? It's just a shirt!”

Anders stared at Arden, openly pleading with his eyes, but could see no flicker of sympathy in Arden's drunken stare. Slowly he rose to his feet, crossing his arms as he took firm hold of the hem of his shirt. Then he turned his back on them both as he pulled the shirt up and over his head in one swift movement. He lowered his head and let his arms fall, still entangled within the shirt, the cuffs caught about his wrists.

He heard the two men draw their breaths in sharply with twin hisses.

“Venhedis!” exclaimed Fenris as Arden muttered in shocked tones, “Sweet Andraste!” He closed his eyes and his head dropped lower as he heard both men rise from their chairs, the wooden chair legs scraping noisily against the floorboards.

He held still as they came closer then halted. He could feel a faint ghost of breath across the raised map of scars that stood out against the pale flesh of his back from shoulders to hips, and he shivered. When a hand lightly traced the twisted raised flesh across one shoulder blade he jerked and cried out then fell to his knees.

“Anders... when... who....” breathed Arden as he stepped closer to the fallen apostate.

“I tried to tell you what happened to mages in the Circle, Arden,” said Anders woodenly. “You didn't believe me. None of you believed me. I tried-” He broke off and drew a ragged breath.

“Oh Anders,” breathed Arden as he reached down and pulled the apostate back up to his feet, slipping his hands around Anders' waist and burying his face against Anders' shoulder as the elf slowly circled them. His eyes held none of the derision that the apostate had expected, instead regarding him with an understanding and sympathy that was almost unbearable.

“What else did they do to you, Anders?” Fenris asked gently.

Anders told them.

Arden began to tremble against Anders' back, and as Anders quietly spoke, he could feel warm wetness upon his shoulder, though Arden's sobs were silent save for his hitching breath. Fenris was silent throughout, but as Anders' voice slowly tailed away, his breathing becoming ragged, the words coming more haltingly, the elf gently reached out and ran a hand over the few scars across Anders' chest and arms – the puckered flesh of an old spider bite, a raised rough area that had been burned once, old healed scars from sword cuts not dodged in time, the round indentation of a healed arrow wound in the dip of his collarbone – the scars of a Grey Warden, none of which hinted at the litany of abuse that marked his flesh across his back from shoulders to hips. He took hold of Anders' wrists, patiently freeing them from the shirt before turning them so Anders' hands rested palm uppermost in the elf's hands. Fenris rubbed his thumbs across the raised lines of the thin scars that ran across the insides of Anders' wrists; one upon each wrist, crossing the delicate blue traceries of veins that pulsed beneath the elf's hands.

“You once asked me if I had ever thought of killing myself,” he said quietly. Anders nodded.

“There are worse things than dying,” he said hoarsely, his head hanging low.

Fenris released Anders' wrists and lifted his hands to cup Anders' face between his warm palms, gently yet firmly forcing Anders to raise his head. The firelight glistened off his wet cheeks, his eyes red-rimmed. Fenris slid his hands into Anders' hair, finding the leather thong and deftly untying it so that Anders' dark gold hair fell loose about his shoulders. Fenris stepped close until his body was pressed against Anders'. Then his hands tightened their grip in Anders' hair as he brought the taller man down towards him and claimed his lips in a fierce kiss.

Anders froze for a moment and then groaned, his eyes fluttering closed as his lips parted, allowing the elf's tongue to probe deeply into his mouth. His head was swimming; dizzy with wine and overwhelmed by memory and emotion, he could only surrender to the elf's silent, insistent demand.

Arden caught him as his knees gave way, laving Anders' shoulders and back with tender kisses as Fenris pulled away from Anders' mouth with a gasp. Then his fingers tightened in the mage's hair, forcing Anders' head back and baring his throat and it was Anders' turn to gasp as the elf sank his teeth into the fragile flesh at the base of his throat before sucking hungrily. Anders' eyes fluttered open. The room was spinning. He closed his eyes and whimpered faintly. Too much. All too much.

He felt himself being lifted, carried between Fenris and Arden, and then he was being laid upon a soft bed, the linen clean and sweet-smelling with a faint tang of lyrium. As consciousness fled, he felt Arden slide into bed behind him, his arms wrapping around Anders' slender waist even as Fenris pressed in against his other side. Something soft was pressed into his hands – his mother's pillow. He cradled it against his chest, breathing in the sweet scent of mountain herbs and flowers. Then he drifted in sleep and knew no more.

 

 

**

 

They were still hung over two days later. It didn't make for a particularly pleasant trip to the Wounded Coast. Anders, Arden and Fenris walked in sullen silence that was broken only by Varric's occasional observations, teasing digs, and attempts at conversation that fell flat. Eventually even the dwarf gave up on trying and they continued on their way in silence, each man alone with their hangover and thoughts.

Anders walked in a world of his own misery, guts still churning, head aching in spite of the elfroot tea he'd managed to choke down that morning. He was tired and distracted, memories of the night at Fenris' mansion still plaguing him. The hangover was lingering far too long; most unfair really. It was somewhat akin to the after-effects of magebane, except he was sure magebane had never left his mouth feeling like some particularly vile Darktown rodent had curled up and died in it.

He had a dim recollection of being laid in the bed, Arden and Fenris lying either side of him, falling asleep as Fenris' gentle fingers stroked his hair. They had woken the following morning, each severely hung over. They had said nothing of what had passed the previous evening, unable to meet each others' eyes as they had dressed. Arden had departed for his own estate, Anders for the clinic.

Now they trudged in silence, in pursuit of a lead Aveline had given them concerning suspected slaver activity along this part of the Wounded Coast. Two of her patrols had gone missing, and she was unwilling to risk further patrols. Arden had agreed to investigate.

They came upon the slavers unexpectedly. Even Fenris' reactions were not what they usually were, though they were more than enough for the two slavers who were foolish enough to rush him. Arden stood back-to-back with Varric, the dwarf picking off slavers with ease as Bianca sang out whilst Arden hurled fiery rain and lightning down upon their hapless opponents.

Anders was intent on following the duel between Fenris and a slaver mage who was holding the frustrated warrior off with distanced attacks, melting away before the enraged elf's onslaught to reappear at a distance, slamming Fenris with a blast of raw power as the elf turned, a fraction too slow. He raised his hands, a spell at the ready as he tracked the slaver mage's motions, trying to predict where he would vanish to reappear next. He never saw the slaver who blindsided him, slamming the hilt of his sword into Anders' left temple before swinging the blade at Anders' ribs, opening up flesh and spraying blood upon the sand as the blond apostate dropped to his knees with a hoarse cry, dropping his staff as he curled in upon himself, clutching at his side, blood spilling hot over his hands as he gasped.

He froze as he felt the slaver's blade come to rest upon the nape of his neck where his collar gaped. The blade lifted and he closed his eyes, knowing his death was at hand as the slaver raised the blade high above his exposed neck.

The blow never fell. Sand sprayed over Anders as suddenly with a flare of silver lyrium light, Fenris had blocked the blow and laid into the slaver. Anders opened his eyes slowly and stared up at the sight of Fenris rending the hapless slaver into little more than bloody gobbets of flesh and shattered bone, scattered across the crimson-soaked sands, heedless of his own wounds.

Ignoring the blood that was running down his side in a steady flow, Anders extended a trembling, blood-soaked hand towards the elf, the blue glow of healing magic enveloping his hand as he reached out towards Fenris, his own wounds forgotten.

Fenris whirled at the touch of the familiar magic and stared at Anders, eyes widening as he saw the pool of blood spreading around the apostate as he knelt in the blood-soaked sand, still directing healing magic towards the warrior even as his own life was ebbing away. With a low cry, Fenris cast aside his blade and threw himself down beside Anders, grasping the outstretched wrist and pressing Anders' hand against the ragged wound even as he encircled the wan mage's waist with his free hand, supporting Anders as he swayed, eyes fluttering closed.

“Arden, Anders needs you!” the elf cried as Anders collapsed in his arms, his face bloodless and pale. Varric was already at their side, thrusting the neck of a flask between Anders' lips and pouring a healing potion down Anders' throat. The dwarf tossed aside the empty flask and reached for another, even as Arden dropped breathlessly to his knees beside them and reached for Anders, his hands lit up in blue as he sank his healing magic into his fellow mage.

“Come on, Anders, come back to me,” breathed Arden as he poured healing magic into the unconscious apostate. “Live, damn you!” Though he was well versed in the healing arts, Arden didn't have the gift that the wounded apostate did – the power of the spirit healer. He could only hope his own skills would be enough to at least close the wound and buy them enough time to get Anders back to Kirkwall.

“He never saw the slaver,” said Varric quietly. “He was too distracted.”

“He has to live,” said Fenris in a tone of quiet desperation that drew a surprised glance from Varric that swiftly turned thoughtful and then speculative.

“Why the sudden change of heart, Broody?” he asked as Arden continued to work on the injured healer. The dwarf reached to a pouch at his belt, pulling out a small vial of lyrium and uncorking it as he passed it to Arden who knocked it back in one swallow then carried on, focused completely upon Anders.

“It is... complicated,” replied Fenris slowly as he gently brushed a strand of hair out of Anders' face with a gauntleted finger. “I am not sure I can explain. I have been blind, and my eyes were suddenly opened to how alike he and I truly are. I only pray I have not discovered this too late.”

Arden slumped as the healing glow died from his hands. “He'll live, but that was close – too close,” he added, as he glanced at Fenris.

“Agreed,” nodded Fenris, still cradling the unconscious mage in his arms. Lifting Anders carefully, he rose to his feet as Varric retrieved the warrior's sword with difficulty, the blade longer than he was tall. Fenris stood still, inclining his back at an awkward angle as the dwarf managed with some effort to hook the blade back onto the back harness where it customarily rested, even as Arden picked up Anders' discarded staff and slung it beside his own, casting a last glance around the sheltered cove where all the slavers lay dead. The slaver mage was little more than a bloodied smear upon the sand where Fenris had vented his rage before turning his anger upon Anders' assailant.

 “Let's get out of here,” he muttered, and gestured to the path back towards Kirkwall. Varric took point, Fenris following carefully with his precious burden as Arden brought up the rear.

Fenris was acutely aware of the faint breathing of the limp mage in his arms with every step he took. The slow walk back to Kirkwall had never seemed so long.


	2. Chapter 2

Anders drifted slowly back towards consciousness. Loose hair was tickling his face. The feel of soft linen sheets beneath him that smelled of herbs, sandalwood and the faint lyrium-laced tang of musk he always associated with Arden told him he was back at the Hawke estate. As he stirred, he realised he was naked beneath the sheets save for his smallclothes and the bandages that wound about his ribs. He ran a hand slowly across the cloth swathing his side; his ribs were still sore, but the agonising pain was gone. He reached up towards his right temple, but there was only a dull ache that occasionally throbbed, the bone knit together once more beneath the bruised skin. He felt weak, as though he had been very ill for a long time.

A hand gently brushed the annoying strands of hair away from his face. He opened his eyes slowly, focusing his gaze upon Fenris.

The white-haired elf was the last person he would have expected to find leaning over him, an expression of tenderness softening his normally-stern expression. “You are awake at last,” he rumbled gently.

Anders searched the elf's green eyes for some sign that this was a trick or perhaps he were still in a dream. But the rough calloused touch of the warm hand Fenris laid against his cheek felt all too real. He regarded the elf warily.

“Where is Arden?” he asked quietly.

“Here,” replied Arden as his face swung into view above Anders. The mage smiled, his amber eyes warm and friendly as he laid the back of his fingers against Anders' forehead. “Good, the fever's broken at last,” he added. “You had us worried for a while there, Anders.”

Anders' gaze darted back to the elf; as if guessing at the apostate's concern, Fenris smiled reassuringly. “You need have no fear around me, Anders,” he said gently. “I will not harm you.”

Anders. He called him Anders – not “mage”.

“Do you remember that night we drank wine and played cards?” asked Fenris, inclining his head to one side.

“Vaguely,” admitted Anders. “It's all a bit of a haze. I was very drunk.”

“We all were,” snorted Arden. Fenris rumbled agreement.

“Do you remember showing us your scars?”

Anders swallowed hard, then nodded, suddenly unable to trust himself to speak. Other memories he had half-thought dreams were now becoming clearer. He turned his face away, trying to regain his composure.

Fenris gently cupped Anders' face with his hand again, firmly forcing the mage to meet his gaze. “I understand now,” breathed the elf softly. “I was blind before, but no longer. We might have lost you-” He broke off, a troubled expression clouding his face.

“'We'?” breathed Anders.

Arden nodded. “I thought my heart would stop when I saw that slaver standing over you,” he confessed quietly. “I knew I couldn't stop him in time before he could take your head off. If Fenris hadn't... if you....” His voice trailed away.

“And even after that, you sought to heal me even though you were bleeding to death before my very eyes,” Fenris finished.

“How long?” whispered Anders hoarsely.

“Four days,” replied Arden gravely. “I honestly thought-” He broke off, a look of anguish in his eyes.

“Arden brought you back, thankfully,” continued Fenris. “I could not have forgiven myself had you died when your very last thought had been to heal me.”

“Fenris has been at your side constantly,” added Arden.

“But... I thought you and Hawke....”

Arden stroked Anders' hair gently. “We would welcome you too, if...” He glanced up at Fenris.

The elf nodded. “I would make up to you for my past aggressions... that is....”

Anders stared up at them both, mind a whirl. He felt like he was drowning in an overload of emotion and revelation. He stared at Arden, whom he had longed for silently for so many years. The blond mage was so alike to him, he could almost have been the brother Anders had never had, and indeed had behaved towards him in that way; he hadn't dared let himself believe there was more to Arden's affection than loneliness for the siblings and family he'd lost, the former Grey Warden being little more than a surrogate sibling – and Anders had gladly accepted and responded to that affection like a starving man. Around Arden, he had felt he could be a better man than he was alone. It was easier to keep the worst urges of Justice at bay; the spirit approving of the man called Hawke, mollified by his reasoned yet impassioned arguments, always putting his fellow mage ahead of himself, striving towards the same goals as Anders, but without being driven by any spirit other than his own innate desire for a natural justice that owed nothing to possession.

It had been only natural that Arden should have reached out to Fenris; the former slave had so obviously been starved of affection and a gentle word much as Anders had, the white-haired elf a prickly defensive creature who nonetheless had responded to Arden's warmth like a flower uncurling towards the spring sun. Arden had caused Fenris to question much he had taken for granted about mages, and Arden had shown infinite patience towards him, answering his questions freely, the two often talking far into the night after the reading lessons that Arden had initiated (so typical of him!) after Fenris had reluctantly admitted he could not read. It seemed only natural that the unlikely friendship between former Magister's slave and apostate mage should deepen into something further.

But Fenris' thawing over the subject of mages had seemed to be only in the direction of Arden; Anders had always been “mage”, never Anders, and whereas Arden and Fenris were able to discuss the freedom of mages with interest and friendliness, every attempt by Anders to raise the subject in discourse had resulted in sneers and overt hostility. The silver tongue which had served Anders so well to spare him the worst of the templar's ministrations on the whole and gotten him out of trouble countless times in the Wardens had tarnished and grown rough under Justice's influence, it seemed.

Had it all really changed in one drunken night? He gazed up at Fenris, who was regarding him with what could only be described as fondness and – yes, there was a spark of desire there in the emerald-green eyes. Fenris found him desirable? Had the sight of the scars he had kept hidden all these years really changed so much between them?

He had never shared with another soul all that had happened to him in the Circle, least of all what had happened in that year in solitary confinement; the scars inside upon his heart as well as those visible across his back. He'd spoken of the punishments meted out to others, never those received by himself; but Arden and Fenris knew all now. In a moment of drunken vulnerability, he had bared all to them.

And Fenris had not used his weakness against him. There had been recognition in those emerald eyes; a sense of kindred experiences.

Dare he hope? To dream? The weight of their continued stares was too much and he closed his eyes with a soft groan. It was too much all at once, and he was still not wholly healed. He could feel the residual lingering weakness that still afflicted his body, the natural consequence of so much blood-loss, but he could not attribute the wave of dizziness that swept over him entirely to that.

“I need to think,” he whispered.

Fenris sighed softly, and Anders opened his eyes again; there was a look of disappointment upon the elf's face which he schooled into careful neutrality as Anders' eyes stared up at him. “I understand,” the elf said quietly.

Anders' hand rose almost of its own accord to thread into the soft white hair as Fenris moved to pull away; the elf stilled at Anders' touch, the green eyes searching his honey-brown gaze questioningly.

“I'm not saying no,” said Anders quietly. “I just....” He let his hand fall as a wave of exhaustion rolled over him. “I'm sorry, I can't think clearly,” he confessed.

“Are you in pain?” asked Arden gently, laying a hand upon Anders' forehead and letting cool healing magic flow into the apostate's slowly-recovering body.

“Mostly exhausted,” Anders replied, sighing as the magic whispered over his body, chasing away niggling little aches, soothing and comforting. He let his eyes fall closed, and a moment later his chest rose and fell in the slow, deep breathing of sleep.

 

**

 

He drifted back to waking some hours later. He smiled faintly, enjoying the warmth of the bed, before he shifted slightly and then fell still. There were two bodies in the bed with him; a warm hand was draped over his waist, a bare chest pressed against his back. Soft hair tickled his nose and he was aware of a warm cheek tucked in against his shoulder, a hand resting lightly upon his chest over his heart.

Opening his eyes, he saw that Fenris was snuggled against his right side, the elf's hair tickling his nose. As he glanced down, he felt Arden stir at his back, the hand draped over his waist tightening slightly.

Fenris lifted his head and smiled sleepily. “You are awake,” he purred, his voice rumbling against Anders' chest. His hand slowly trailed down Anders' chest then dipped lower.

“What are you -” breathed Anders, eyes widening.

“Shh, relax,” murmured Arden behind him as he pressed his hands against the small of Anders' back, one slowly tracing its way up the healer's spine as the other swept down to cup against Anders' arse even as Fenris disappeared beneath the covers with a low chuckle.

“Arden, what are you two – _ohhhh_ ,” Anders breathed out slowly with a low moan as the elf's lips circled his flaccid cock, drawing him into those wet, hot inviting depths. He felt a rush of blood to his groin and his cock twitched with definite interest as Fenris sucked slowly upon his member.

“Oh Maker,” he breathed, closing his eyes as Fenris began to work him with mouth and hands, fighting the urge to thrust into Fenris' mouth even as Arden probed at his entrance with a slicked finger. “Maker, yes,” he begged, lifting his leg slightly and canting his hips back until Arden's finger slid inside him.

It had been so long since last he was bedded by anyone – man or woman, it didn't matter. And here he lay between two men who seemed quite intent upon having their wicked way with him.

He writhed slowly, reaching a hand back to run it slowly up Arden's ribs even as his other hand buried itself in Fenris' feathery locks, lost in a world of sensation as Arden slipped a second finger in beside the first, gently questing inside before trawling his fingers lightly across Anders' prostate with the lightest touch of magic.

Anders arched his spine and threw his head back, eyes opening wide as his mouth formed a perfect “O” of ecstacy with a gasp. “Again,” he managed to choke. “Oh Maker do that again,” he begged.

Arden obliged with a low chuckle, Anders' body jerking helplessly with each delicious shock deep inside him until the mage was utterly undone and babbling helplessly, incoherently, begging for Arden to enter him before he lost it completely.

Arden pulled Anders over onto his back as Fenris pulled away, Anders crying out in dismay that turned to groans of assent as Fenris slicked his own hard member with oil then shifted to kneel between Anders' thighs. The blond apostate threw his head back, baring his throat and moaning as the elf slowly pushed into Anders' ready body and then began to thrust slowly into his willing flesh.

Arden took the bottle of oil from Fenris and reached behind himself, opening himself up slowly before slicking Anders' engorged member with an oil-covered hand then swung a leg over the blond apostate to straddle him, lowering himself onto Anders' erection. Arden let his head fall back as he rocked himself upon Anders' cock, his mouth falling open as he closed his eyes. Anders reached up and ran his hands over Arden's pale skin as he thrust up into the other man's willing and compliant body, each thrust drawing small needy gasps from the other mage even as Fenris' thrusts grazed Anders' deepest spot, eliciting moans from Anders in turn.

Arden panted as Anders pumped into him, rocking himself down to meet each thrust and driving the other apostate deeper inside. “Do it to me,” Arden begged, and Anders obliged, curling a hand around the base of Arden's cock as he reached beneath, slipping a finger into Arden's body beside his own cock and then letting a trickle of electric magic flow into them both.

Arden cried out and came hard in Anders' hand, his seed spilling across Anders' chest even as Anders threw his head back with a hoarse cry. His hips stuttered and then he came inside Arden, following the blond mage over the edge as Arden collapsed onto him, gasping raggedly.

Fenris redoubled his efforts, pounding into Anders frantically with a slapping of wet flesh as he pursued his own orgasm. With a cry he came into Anders' weakly twitching body, and the mage moaned breathlessly even as Fenris pulled loose with a groan before collapsing on the bed next to his two lovers.

Arden lay still atop Anders, just listening to his heart racing then slowing to a steadier beat before he rolled off the exhausted blonde apostate, Anders' half-erect cock slipping free from his body. He draped a hand across Anders' chest as Fenris wrapped a brown lyrium-marked arm around Anders' waist. Anders lay on his back, head thrown back and eyes closed as he panted, waiting for his breathing to calm.

“Oh Maker,” he finally groaned. “I think you've both killed me.”

Arden chuckled breathlessly beside him then curled his hand around Anders' half-erect cock and let a trickle of magic flow through his fingers.

Anders arched his back with a low cry before collapsing back onto the bed. “You _will_ kill me!” he gasped.

“What about that famed Grey Warden stamina; was that all a myth?” teased Fenris as he levered himself up onto one elbow to look down at Anders with a fond smile.

“Even that has limitations,” protested Anders weakly. “I'm not a well man still! Give me a chance to catch my breath,” he begged.

Fenris stroked the side of Anders' face. “Then you have thought on what we spoke of earlier?”

“You really mean it, don't you?” breathed Anders softly. Fenris nodded.

“We want you with us – Arden and I both.”

Anders glanced at Arden, who nodded encouragingly. He groaned again, but this time it was a groan of anticipation.

“You two will be the death of me,” he grinned. “Kill me gently, loves?”

Arden slipped a finger into his entrance and let the magic flow again and Anders groaned once more as they all three began to explore this strange, new exciting relationship....

 

 

 

 


End file.
